Where are My Pills, Where is My Former Lover?
by Shesreckless
Summary: He'd promised Brock, all those years ago, that he was through with the pills, for good. Yet still... Rusty Venture has never known a life outside of failure. With the sudden weight of keeping his late brother's company afloat on his shoulders, Rusty finds himself falling into old habits of prescription drug abuse, as a means to cope.
1. Chapter 1

Dr. Venture sighed heavily, chin propped up with his right hand as he stared hopelessly at the ever accumulating pile of papers stacked on his desk. Business was, in fact, booming for Venture Industries. He'd been at the helm of his late brother's company for nearly eight months and had somehow managed not to fuck it up. _Yet._ Dr. Thaddeus "Rusty" Venture was well versed in failure; having lived in his father's all-encompassing shadow for most of his life, only to be trumped by his younger brother's outrageous success, he had grown comfortable in his role as the lesser Venture son. The failure. The washed up has-been.

He should be thrilled by all of his new found success. _Should be, but aren't._ Admittedly, Rusty had been enthralled with his good fortune, initially. As the Venture compound had been destroyed, he'd thought it a sign that it was time to move forward, start fresh somewhere new. He'd been excited to move to New York. However, as he'd come to find over the past eight months, New York, for all it's excitement, still wasn't home.

Part of him had hoped, prayed, that a clean slate would fix everything. A new city, a new business to run, a second chance at a good life. However, as Rusty knew all too well, once the initial glitter and excitement wore off, he was still stuck with the same old problems. At the end of the day, he was still Rusty Venture. _Still stuck being the same old me._ He should have known better. He'd tried before, at college, to reinvent himself, to free himself of the personal woes that plagued him. _You can't run away from yourself, Rust. No matter where you move, you're still you. A thousand miles distance won't change that._ Who'd even said that to him? He frowned, struggling to recall who'd offered him those words of wisdom. Colonel Gentleman, perhaps? Rusty shrugged, rubbing his temples. _It's not like it matters._

He removed his glasses for a moment, rubbing his eyes furiously. "What am I doing?" he wondered aloud.

"Doc?"

Rusty froze, startled by the sound of another's voice. _Oh. It's Brock._ "Brock?" he asked, hastily putting his glasses back on.

"I'm uh, heading out for the night. The boys are out... You okay on your own?" the blonde asked, pausing in the doorway, arms folded against his chest.

"Yeah, it's fine. Whatever," Rusty mumbled, puling the nearest stack of papers forward. "I have a lot of work to get done today."

"It's almost nine thirty, Doc. You sure you don't want to um, call it quits for the night?" Brock asked hesitantly, eyeing his employer uncertainly.

"I have a lot of work to do, _Brock._ It's hard work, running a company. People are counting on me to not screw this up like-" he paused, stopping short of finishing his sentence.

Despite the silence, the unsaid words rung in the air between the two.

 _Like I always do._

Rusty didn't need to say the words for Brock to know what he was thinking. After all, the men had known each other for over two decades. Brock knew better than anyone else the things that tormented Rusty Venture. _Too well,_ a nagging voice in the back of Rusty's head taunted.

"Don't be so hard on yourself, Doc. You're doing a great job."

Rusty offered the man a small, grateful smile. "Thanks."

"Will you be back tonight or..." Rusty trailed off, his stomach recoiling. _Why did you ask that? You'd be better off not knowing._

"I'll um, be out for the night. I'll be back in the morning," Brock retorted, shifting his weight uncomfortably.

"Oh. Right then. Good night," Rusty muttered, turning his gaze back to his work.

Brock sighed heavily, blue eyes boring holes in Rusty's direction. Rusty stared intently at the business proposal before him, struggling to maintain his composure. _Whatever you had with him happened a long time ago. He's over it. You don't get to be upset that he has someone new, now._

"I thought you were leaving," Rusty noted, words thick as he choked back a sob.

He glanced up, meeting Brock's gaze. Rusty bit the inside of his cheek, taken aback by the somber, almost apologetic look on Brock's face. "Your _friend_ is probably waiting for you," he noted, the words coming out more bitterly than he'd intended.

"You should go," he added, his tone softer this time.

Brock nodded, shoving his hands into his pockets, "Yeah," he agreed, clearing his throat. "Good night, Doc," he mumbled, closing the door softly behind him as he left.

Rusty buried his head in his hands, unable to suppress the silent tears that trickled down his cheeks. _Brock._

* * *

Rusty stared down at the vial of pills in his hands, considering. He'd been up for three days straight, struggling to finish up a project he had to present the following week to his board members. It had been a number of years since he had last indulged in his one true vice: diet pills. He'd given up the habit years ago, though he still occasionally found himself reaching for the familiar orange prescription bottle from the top drawer of his nightstand on particularly bad nights. _You gave them up for Brock,_ the nagging voice reminded him. Rusty cringed. It was true; Brock had hated his habit, and he'd reluctantly given them up for him. To make Brock happy. But here he was, desperately unhappy, with Brock nothing more to him than an employee, at this point. He'd given up his one comfort, but even that hadn't been enough to make him stay. Christ, even the boys hadn't been reason enough for Brock to stick around. He stared at the bottle again, reading the label carefully. _Dextroamphetamine._ After rifling around every medicine cabinet in the penthouse, he'd stumbled upon this in the boys' bathroom. ADD medicine, prescribed to his oldest, Hank. _Amphetamines._ He paused once more, considering his options. On the one hand, he was exhausted. Work had been particularly draining, and he just needed _something_ to help him power through with all of his work. At least until he finished this project. He wouldn't keep taking them. On the other hand, what would Brock think? He'd promised Brock, all those years ago, that he was through with the pills (mostly amphetamines), for good. _Who cares what Brock thinks? He's not your... whatever he was, anymore. Brock doesn't get to decide what you do or don't do._

Rusty removed the lid, gently tapping three pills into his palm. He avoided his reflection in the mirror as he swallowed them down, dry.

* * *

"What do you _mean,_ you _forgot_ that I have to be in D.C. this weekend?" Rusty hissed, eyes wild with rage.

"Doc, I-"

"Oh, I'm sorry. Did you _forget_ that you _work_ for _me?_ That you have a _job_ to do, here? O.S.I. didn't assign you here to spend your days off doing god knows what with your... w _hatever she is_ ," he continued, jabbing an accusatory finger in Brock's direction.

Rusty took a deep breath, his heart pounding dangerously fast in his chest. He glanced down at his mug of coffee, still half-full. _Perhaps a handful of pills and caffeine are not the best combination,_ he considered, frowning.

Brock remained silent, unusual for him. Rusty glanced at the larger man, suddenly uneasy. "Well?" he asked, gesturing wildly with his right hand.

"I'm sorry," Brock sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "I forgot about it. I'll cancel my plans, okay?"

"Do you even want to be here?" Rusty asked lowly, his voice barely above a whisper.

"How can you say that, Doc? You know I-"

"You left because you weren't feeling _fulfilled_ with your job. With _me."_

Brock stared at Rusty with a look of disbelief. _How could he say that?_ "You're my family. How could I not take the assignment?" he questioned, disbelievingly.

"If we were _really_ your family, you never would have left," Rusty quipped, arms folded against his chest.

Before Brock could open his mouth to get a word in edgewise, Rusty stormed out of the room.

"Hey Brock," Hank called out cheerfully, joining the larger man in the kitchen.

"Hey Hank," Brock mumbled, pouring himself a mug of coffee.

"What's Pop so angry about?" the younger boy asked, as he set about preparing himself a bowl of cereal.

"He's uh, just stressed out about work, Hank. Don't worry about it, he'll cool off."

Hank shot him a disbelieving look as he settled down at the kitchen table.

"What's that look for?" Brock questioned, arms folded against his chest.

"Nothing. Pop's been acting like this for a while, now."

"This is the first I've seen it."

"You're never around."

Brock paused, taken aback by how casually Hank had said that. A pang of guilt ached deep in his chest. "I guess I haven't been around much, huh?" he mumbled, taking a seat at the table.

Hank shrugged, digging into his cereal. "Well, yeah. You never used to... you know. Go out every night," he noted, eyes lowered, focusing on his breakfast.

Brock cleared his throat, unsure of how to respond.

"I guess maybe Pop thought things would be different."

"What do you mean?"

Hank paused, staring thoughtfully at him. "Well," he started, pausing to take another spoonful of cereal, "you came back to be our bodyguard. After all this time. I guess he thought that things would go back to the way there were before. Like back home."

The two sat in silence for a moment, each lost in their own thoughts. "I know I hoped they would," Hank added, averting his eyes back to his bowl of cereal.

A low sigh escaped Brock's lips as he stared down into his coffee mug. "Things _aren't_ the same, though, Hank. You boys are all grown up. You don't need someone constantly watching over you to keep you out of trouble."

"Maybe it's not us who need to be looked after," Hank mumbled.

Brock observed the boy a moment, a single brow raised.

"What are you trying to say, Hank?" he asked lowly, nervously running a hand through his curly blonde locks.

"Nothing. It's nothing," Hank replied, rising to his feet. "I have to get to work," he mumbled, shrugging his shoulders.

Brock mumbled a good bye, taking a deep sip of his coffee. Hank hadn't needed to say a word. He already knew: Doc needed him. And he hadn't been doing a great job at looking after him. Dr. Thaddeus Venture. Rusty to his friends. One of _his_ oldest friends. Hell, his former... He shook his head, unable to bring himself to think the words, let alone speak them aloud. _What was he, even? A partner? A lover?_

Admittedly, his inability to put a label on whatever it was he and the good doctor had shared was half the problem; he, like a jackass, had up and left. He'd been the one to end things, by quitting his job and abandoning the Venture family. _His_ family. Doc already had crippling emotional damage courtesy of his traumatic childhood. There was no doubt that his leaving had done a number on him. Brock tried not to think about it. _It was just a job,_ he told himself. But that wasn't really true. Not even a little bit. Nothing had ever been so cut and dry with Doc.

Though he could barely admit it to himself, Brock was still at least half in love with the smaller man. How could he not be? They'd spent nearly every waking moment together for close to twenty years. They'd raised a family together. He bit his lip, mind drifting to memories of the older man that he kept safely guarded in the deep recesses of his heart. Memories he treasured far more than he'd ever care to admit. Intimate moments the pair had shared. Moments that had shaped the way he, Brock Samson, would define what love _felt_ like for the rest of his life. Hell, half the reason he'd thrown himself into his whirlwind romance with Warriana was to avoid the aching attraction he still felt for the redheaded Venture.

He'd jumped at the opportunity to return to his old job, guarding the Ventures. At last, he was back where he belonged, with his family. With Rusty. He should have known, however, that things wouldn't return to the way they'd been when he'd left. Too much time had passed. Too many of the wrong things had been said, and too many of the right things, left unsaid. Rusty still carried the hurt and rejection, like a festered wound, deep inside him. Most days, Brock could barely look him in the eye without feeling the unbearable weight of guilt crashing over him.

So what had he done? He'd run, like a coward, into the arms of another lover. Warriana. Anything to forget the guilt, to dull the pain. He'd considered apologizing, countless times. He'd even practiced what he would say, rehearsing half a dozen ways he'd come up with to apologize for leaving. To beg for forgiveness. To take him back. But still, he'd never acted on it. He couldn't bring himself to face what he could only assume would be inevitable rejection. _You left him. It's been three years. A little late for apologies._

* * *

Rusty slammed the door shut as he entered the lab, signaling his presence.

"Hey Rust!" Pete White, his college friend, greeted him, raising a hand in recognition.

"What's up?" Billy added, glancing up from the lab table where he'd been in the midst of tinkering with one of Venture Industries latest inventions.

"Can you believe he _forgot_ that we're due in DC to present the new drone prototype to the army this weekend?" Rusty huffed, digging through his pockets.

Billy and Pete exchanged knowing looks, much to Rusty's chagrin. " _What_?" he hissed, lips contorted into a scowl.

Billy glanced at Pete, nodding for him to elaborate. "Jeeze, Rust. It's just... Are you _still_ not over him?"

Rusty froze, every muscle in his body contracting. "W-what did you just say?" he stuttered, eyes shooting daggers in Pete's direction.

"Rust, you've had a crush on him since college. I know you guys had some sort of... _thing,_ back at the compound-"

"Enough," Rusty interrupted, holding up a hand to pause him. "I don't want to talk about this. _We_ have work to do."

Rusty fiddled with the cap of his prescription bottle, dumping a handful of pills into his palm. Nonchalantly, he tossed the handful into his mouth, helping himself to the can of fresca Pete had been drinking to chase them down. "What?" he muttered, rolling his eyes at the concerned looks the pair was giving him.

The two remained silent, averting their eyes from Rusty's menacing stare.

"I've been under a lot of pressure, you know. I have to... Everything has to be perfect. I can't screw this up. So what if I need a little something to get me through it?"

Billy and Pete nodded, uncomfortable. "Yeah... Sure, Rust," they muttered, turning their attention back to their work.

"Will the prototype be ready before Friday?" Rusty queried.

Billy nodded. "Sure thing. We'll make sure of it."

Rusty nodded, sinking down onto the stool beside the quiz-boy. "Good," he muttered, resting his head in his hands.

The trio sat quietly in silence for several minutes, the room quiet, save for the occasional whirr of power tools.

"Hey Rust," Billy said finally, a tinge of hesitance in his voice.

"Hmm?"

"Are you... Are you okay?"

Rusty lifted his head to face the younger man beside him, watching him carefully, a twinge of concern on his face.

He paused for a moment, considering how to respond. Frowning, he weighed his options, half tempted to admit the truth. Still, he resisted, knowing how badly that would sound to his friends. _What could I say? I'm miserable? I'm speeding my balls off on my son's ADD medication? I haven't eaten in three days? I'm still in love with my bodyguard, who'd rather shirk his duties by gallivanting around town with his new woman than be around me?_ "Yeah, I'm fine," he lied, sighing deeply. _Maybe Colonel Gentleman was right... The more things change, the more they stay the same._


	2. Chapter 2

"Brock, we need to leave, already," Rusty called out, tapping his foot impatiently.

"Just a second, Doc," Brock called out.

" _Fine_ ," Rusty grumbled, rolling his eyes.

He busied himself with his J-phone, reviewing his notes for the impending presentation for what felt like the millionth time.

"Alright, I'm ready," Brock announced, joining him in the foyer of the penthouse.

Rusty paused for a moment, relishing the sight before him. There stood Brock, clad in one of his old skin-tight black tee shirts and straight-legged jeans, the ones Rusty loved, that hugged the curve of his ass _just right_. It had been a while since he'd seen Brock dressed down in what he'd coined his 'usual' garb. Since returning to his employment as the Venture bodyguard, Rusty had seen Brock in little else beside his O.S.I. uniform or a polo shirt with khakis. It was more than a little nice to see Brock looking like... well, _Brock_ again. _He doesn't look a day over thirty. Goddamn._ Rusty cleared his throat, ignoring the flush that he was all too certain had spread across his cheeks. "Alright, well let's go check on Hatred... I sent him to load the prototype onto the X-1... Hopefully he hasn't set _that_ aflame like he did our _home_ ," he muttered, rolling his eyes once more.

Brock nodded, folding his arms against his chest. "You uh, need help with that?" he asked, nodding toward the suitcase that stood at Rusty's feet.

"I thought you'd never ask," Rusty smirked, turning on his heel toward the elevator. "Come on, Brock. We can't be late."

Brock mumbled something in agreement, picking up Doc's suitcase, as well as his own duffel bag, with ease. "You ready for this?" he asked as they stood in relative silence, making their way to the rooftop.

"Of course I am. Why wouldn't I be? I'm Rusty Venture," Rusty scoffed, nervously wringing his hands together.

Brock shot him a knowing look, his right eyebrow cocked in an 'I don't believe you' fashion.

"Alright, so I'm nervous. This is... This is important, you know?" he muttered, lowering his eyes self-consciously.

"It'll be fine, Doc. You're a good scientist."

" _Super-_ scientist," Rusty corrected.

"Yeah, yeah. I know," Brock scoffed, rolling his eyes. "I'm just saying, don't worry. It'll all work out. Billy said you guys have really got something, here."

"I hope so..." Rusty mumbled under his breath, shoving his hands in his pockets.

* * *

Brock observed Rusty from the corner of his eye as the pair sat in silence in the X-1, cruising at a steady speed toward Washington D.C. Rusty fidgeted in his seat, apparently unable to keep still.

"You alright, Doc?" he asked, careful to keep the plan steady.

"Yeah, I'm fine," Rusty huffed, visibly irritable. "How much longer until we land?"

"I dunno, maybe another half hour?"

He observed as Rusty rolled his eyes once more, clearly annoyed.

"What's got you all worked up?"

"I just want to get this over with... You know these things make me nervous," he snapped, his tone almost accusatory.

"Yeah. I know," Brock affirmed, struggling to keep his temper in check. _He's stressed out. Don't take it personally._

Rusty rose to his feet suddenly, quickly shuffling towards the bathroom. The all too familiar sound of pills rattling in a vial filled the otherwise silent cockpit. _No. He can't be._

"You alright?" Brock queried, turning his head to face the smaller man.

"Yeah, sure," Rusty called out, disappearing behind the door separating the cockpit from the rest of the plane.

Brock froze, thoughts racing. _No way. No fucking way would he be doing that shit again._ He rose to his feet, setting the plane to auto-pilot. Stealthily, he made his way to the bathroom, careful to keep his presence unknown. Gently, he pushed the door open a crack, giving him a clear view of the bathroom counter and sink. To Brock's horror, there stood Rusty Venture, bent forward over the bathroom counter, inhaling a line of a powdery substance through a dollar bill. Carefully, he let the door swing shut, a sick, sinking feeling rising from the pit of his stomach. Body tense, Brock slinked back to the cockpit, resuming his duties of piloting the X-1. He gripped the controls tightly, thoughts racing. _What the fuck is he doing? He promised he'd given that shit up._ Brock didn't need to get a closer look to know what  
Rusty was taking, there was no doubt about it: amphetamines. It had to be. Rusty wouldn't know how to get his hands on street drugs. Diet pills, or amphetamines packaged on something else, that was something Rusty was well versed in acquiring.

* * *

Rusty returned a few moments later, noticeably more upbeat than he'd been before his trip to the bathroom. "It's been a while since we've had some alone time, huh?" Rusty started, suddenly very chatty.

"I don't think it's been just us, off on an adventure since... God, I don't even know when."

"Hmm," Brock mumbled, avoiding looking in Doc's direction. He inhaled deeply, willing himself to exude a calmness he certainly didn't feel at the moment.

Brock stared ahead as Doc rambled on, chattering excitedly about the prototype they were due to present to the army later that day.

"You know General Wright, don't you, Brock?"

Brock blinked, suddenly aware that Rusty had asked him a question.

"Uh, yeah. I think so. I've probably met him a few times," he replied, shrugging.

"Weren't you in the army, Brock?" Rusty asked, staring intently at him.

Brock sighed, exhaling sharply. " _Yeah,_ Doc. You know that. I was special ops before I got recruited for O.S.I."

"Just making conversation," Rusty retorted, folding his arms against his chest. "Since you've done nothing but sit there and ignore me the entire flight."

"What do you want me to say, Doc?" Brock sighed, exasperated. "I was listening to you talk about your newest invention."

"I suppose your _friend_ was disappointed you had to cancel your plans to accompany me to this," Rusty noted, abruptly changing the subject.

 _Not uncommon when he's high on speed,_ Brock mentally noted, grimacing. "It was no big deal, really. My work comes first. You know that."

Rusty snorted, muttering something incoherent under his breath.

"Doc," he said warningly.

Rusty pouted, turning his head away from the blond man.

Brock sighed once more, lowering the plane to land easily before the massive army base just outside of Washington D.C. "We're here, Doc," he started, turning to face the redhead.

Rusty nodded, avoiding making eye contact. "Alright," he mumbled, rising to his feet. "Here goes nothing, right?" he continued, rubbing his palms against the legs of his speed-suit.

"Uh, Why don't you... Go freshen up some, Doc? I'll take care of unloading the X-1," Brock offered, unable to resist his desire to protect the man from his own unbearable anxiety. _Let him go take another pill or five. Whatever he needs to get through this... He's obviously a wreck._

"Thanks," Rusty mumbled, shooting Brock a grateful look.

Brock forced a smile, struggling not to wince at the sight of beading sweat along Rusty's nonexistent hairline. _Either he's really nervous about this, or he's speeding his balls off._ Brock sighed, rubbing his face with his hands. Knowing Doc, it was probably both. As Rusty retreated towards the bathroom, Brock made his way to the cargo bay, eager to avoid thinking about the good doctor by busying himself with unloading the newest prototype from Venture Industries. _Don't think about it. He'll be fine. He's a grown man... He knows what he's doing._ Brock choked back a laugh, knowing all too well that Rusty Venture was the last man on Earth who should be left to his own devices. _Who the hell do I think I'm kidding?_

* * *

Brock stared blearily down into his half finished tumbler of whiskey. To his relief, the presentation with General Wright had gone off without a hitch. Rusty had gleefully relayed all the details of the meeting on the short ride to the hotel they were staying at for the night, seemingly overjoyed to at least experiencing some well-earned respect for his scientific ability. Brock had passed on the opportunity to sit on the meeting, unable to bear the sight of Rusty, perked up on whatever pills he'd gotten his hands on, putting on his usual dog and pony show to impress a potential client. Instead, he'd lingered outside, chain smoking and rattling his brain as to how he would go about broaching the subject of pills with Doc. There was no doubt in his mind that Rusty had returned to his old coping mechanism; abusing prescription drugs. After all, even when he'd been bad off years before, Brock had never witnessed Rusty _snorting_ his pills. Taking handfuls at a time, yes, but never what he'd witnessed in the X-1's bathroom. Upon arrival to the hotel, Brock had made short work of getting Rusty and their luggage up to their hotel room, barely taking note of the layout of the room before rushing off to the hotel bar. A situation such as this called for one thing and one thing only; Brock needed to get drunk. Very drunk.

He tilted his head back, draining the contents of his glass. Frowning, he rapped the bar with his fingertips, racking his brain for something, _anything_ to say to Doc. He'd had such conversations with Rusty a million times before, why couldn't he think of a single thing to say, now? _Because it's different, now. He's not your... Whatever. It's not your place to object to his... Habits._ Brock frowned, wanting nothing more than to light up a Manboro. "Stupid clean air laws," he muttered to himself, raising a hand to signal the bartender to bring him another drink.

Brock reached for his freshened glass, offering the bartender a nod in thanks as he tossed back a swig of the harsh whiskey. Brock's vision doubled as he glanced around the room; he'd been drinking for a number of hours now, and it was finally starting to create the desired effect. Messily running his fingers through his unruly curls, Brock frowned, still at a loss as to how to broach Rusty's recurring pill habit. "You're killing me, Doc," he muttered lowly, shaking his head.

Checking his watch, he noted that it was getting late. _Should probably go check on him... Make sure he hasn't been kidnapped. Or passed out in his own vomit._ Brock rose to his feet, tossing a handful of bills onto the bar. He downed the last of his drink before exiting the bar, making his way toward the hotel elevators. "Jesus Christ, Doc... Couldn't you have taken up drinking or... Or something. Anything but the pills, again," he muttered to himself, brow furrowed. Brock had hated seeing Rusty as he'd been when he'd been abusing diet pills in the past. The very thought made his blood run cold. He'd hoped he'd never have to see Doc, _his_ Rusty, like that, ever again. Taking a deep breath for courage, he entered the hotel room, preparing for the worst. _Hopefully he's conscious._

* * *

To Brock's relief, he found Brock curled up in bed, staring mindlessly at the huge flat-screen television. "Oh, you're back," he noted curtly, shooting Brock an accusing look.

"Yeah, sorry. Guess I was gone for a while, huh?" Brock apologized, slipping out of his shoes and striding toward the center of the room.

Brock observed the room for a moment, impressed by the grandness of it; it was certainly a far cry from the rat-hole motel they'd stayed at back when... He shook his head, willing himself to not think about it. "Only one bed?" Brock noted, eyebrow raised.

"There were no double beds available. Sorry," Rusty replied, eyes glued to the television screen.

"No problem... Not the first time we've shared close quarters, eh Doc?" Brock teased, trying to lighten the mood.

Rusty remained silent, his lips twitching into a frown.

Brock sighed, suddenly aware of how warm the room was. "Jeeze Doc, how high do you have the temperature turned up to? 90 degrees?"

Rusty shrugged. "I'm cold, Brock. Besides, it's a hotel. They can afford to crank up the heat if that's what I want."

Brock shrugged. "I guess so," he agreed, decided it best not to argue with Rusty when he was obviously in a mood.

Slowly, Brock removed his tee shirt, revealing his broad, muscular chest.

Rusty turned his head, unable to resist the tantalizing sight before him. _God, he's still the perfect specimen._ Rusty had known Brock for a long time, knew his body intimately, yet somehow, it still amazed him, seeing his bodyguard and former... _Whatever,_ still in peak physical shape. He involuntarily licked his lips, eyes lingering down to Brock's abdomen, fixated on the patch of blond hair that trailed from below his navel to... Rusty felt heat rising in his cheeks as he allowed himself a peek of his bodyguard's bulging package. _He should wear those jeans more often._

"I didn't know you still had that metal plate," Rusty noted, eager to draw attention away from his lingering gaze.

Brock shrugged, unbuckling his belt. "Yeah... I never saw the point, I guess. Helps protect the old ticker, don't ya think?" he noted, slipping out of his jeans.

Rusty suppressed a gasp as he watched Brock stride across the room towards the bathroom, clad in nothing but a pair of form-fitting black boxer briefs. Carefully, he palmed his half-stiff erection, willing his body to cooperate for the time being. _Not now, Rusty. You can jack off in the shower once he goes to sleep._

A moment later, Brock returned, striding purposefully toward the bed. "You mind? It's been a long day," he elaborated, not bothering to wait for permission before sliding into bed beside him.

Rusty nodded weakly, turning his head to watch as Brock slid under the covers, leaving half his torso bare. Rusty averted his eyes, lest he be caught staring. "So," he stammered, adjusting his glasses, unnecessarily.

"I'm proud of you, Doc. You know that? I know it's been... Hard. Adjusting to this whole thing. A new home. A new company. New expectations. You're doing good."

Rusty smiled, a slight blush dusting his cheeks. "Thanks... It's certainly... Not been easy," he admitted, wringing the edge of the comforter in his hands.

Brock smiled warmly at the man, boldly taking the smaller man's hand in his own. "I'm always here, you know. Even though... Things are different. You're still my family. You know that, right?"

Doc nodded, touched by Brock's sentiment. Brock Samson had never been one for touching gestures, but occasionally, he surprised the scientist with his genuine caring. "I-I know, Brock. I'm glad you- that you came home."

Brock observed the man for a moment, considering his next course of action. _Should I confront him about it?_ He squeezed the smaller man's hand, surprised by how natural, how _right_ it felt to be lying beside Rusty Venture once more. Rusty turned his head, offering Brock one of his rare, genuine smiles. Brock smiled back, feeling his heart beat a tad bit faster. It had been a _long time_ since Rusty had looked at him like that. _Too long._ Laying here beside Doc felt nice. Too nice to ruin the moment by bringing up Doc's apparent drug abuse. Against his better judgment, Brock decided to let the matter of the pills go, for the time being, content to enjoy this quiet moment with the man he still loved, while it lasted.


	3. Chapter 3

"I can't do this. I can't fucking do this, Brock."

Brock stared down at his breakfast, carefully considering how to respond.

Three weeks had passed since their trip to D.C. Three weeks Brock had bided his time, unsure of how to approach the doctor about the pills.

"Everything is just..." Rusty trailed off, pacing the length of the kitchen hurriedly, hands trembling as he paused occasionally to take sips from his mug of coffee.

"When's the last time you slept, Doc?" Brock asked, keeping his tone neutral.

Rusty shrugged, angrily slamming his mug onto the kitchen counter. "I don't know who I'm trying to fool... I can't run a multi-billion dollar company. I-I fucking... Everything I touch, I ruin. I-I just want to go back home. Where no one expected anything from me. This is all too much. I'm not my dad. I'm not J.J."

"Doc," Brock said gently, rising to his feet. "You've been running yourself into the ground... You need some rest."

He placed his right hand on the smaller man's shoulder, in what he hoped was a reassuring gesture. "You're working too hard."

Brock had seen Rusty like this too many times before; strung out and coming down off of amphetamine binges. Since they'd returned home, Rusty'd been popping pills like they were candy, and if the dark circles under his eyes were any indication, hadn't slept much during that time, as well.

"I don't have time to sleep, Brock. Everyone expects me to do everything and keep everything afloat. I have to... Have to be better. Better than I'm capable of..." Rusty sighed, lowering himself onto the ground, knees pulled tightly up against his chest.

Brock cleared his throat, preparing himself for what he had to say. _You have to confront him. He's a fucking mess._ "Rust," he started, choosing to call the doctor by his nickname, rather than the usual way he addressed him.

Rusty glanced up at him, surprised by the familiar name Brock had addressed him by.

"I know you're uh, that you've been... taking those pills again," he continued, lowering his eyes to the ground, careful to avoid Rusty's gaze.

"You're... You're coming down off of them, Rust. What, did you run out of them or..."

Rusty remained silent, face pallid as he gazed up at Brock, apparently frozen in fear.

"Hey, come on... You... You used to be able to tell me anything. I'm not going to get mad about it. Just tell me," Brock continued, taken aback by the doctor's reaction. He'd braced himself for the worst, expecting yelling and denial. The last thing he'd expected was the sight before him.

"I don't want to talk about it," Rusty replied, eyes narrowed into slits.

"How many a day are you up to?" Brock queried, arms folded against his chest.

"What do you even care?" Rusty muttered, slowly rising to his feet. "I'm not your problem, anymore, _Samson._ "

"I care," Brock snapped, striding purposefully toward the smaller man. "I care _a lot."_

"You have a funny way of showing it," Rusty snapped, turning his back to the larger man. "Why don't you just _move in_ with her? Frankly, the entire pretense of you _living_ here is a joke. You're there more than you are here. _Everyone_ knows it. I don't know why you came back."

Brock froze, stunned by the sharpness of the doctor's words. "This isn't about _me,_ Doc. This is about you. You're fucking taking those goddamn pills again, even though you-"

"You don't get to be mad about this. I'm an _adult._ I can... If I want to take them, it's my decision," Rusty interrupted, shooting Brock a furious look.

"Because we both know how great you are at making your own decisions," Brock retorted, immediately regretting the words the moment they escaped his lips.

Rusty recoiled, the hurt all too apparent in his eyes. "Get out of here. Get out of my penthouse," he whispered, hands shaking as he reached into his pockets for a vial of pills.

"I didn't mean-"

"Go," Rusty interrupted, shakily removing several pills from the bottle and tossing them back with a sip from his coffee mug.

"Doc, please, I'm sorry-"

"Go. Away." Rusty insisted, shoulders tense as he turned his back to him.

Brock sighed, resigned. "Do you really want me to leave?"

 _Silence._

"I'm assigned to protect you, Doc. I'll go out for a little while if that's what you want. But I'm coming back. I need..." he trailed off, holding himself back from completing his thought of _I need you._ "It's my job," he concluded, instead.

Rusty remained silent, apparently ignoring him.

Brock sighed heavily, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Whether you like it or not, eventually we're going to have to talk about... _This._ About everything, really. We can't keep dancing around what happened if... If this is how you're choosing to deal with it."

Rusty muttered something incomprehensible under his breath.

Brock shook his head, heading toward the elevators. "Just because I left... I didn't... I never said I didn't love you, you know."

* * *

Brock returned to the penthouse some time after midnight, deciding it best to give Doc as much time to cool off as possible. To his surprise, he found the living room fully lit, the boys huddled up together on the sofa. "What're you two doing up?" he asked, uneasy at the sight of the two boys looking so worried.

"Pop's been acting... off," Dean started, frowning.

Brock nodded mutely, unsure of how to respond.

"More than off, Dean-o. He was breaking things down in the lab. Hatred had to restrain him," Hank added, shooting an out of character accusatory look in Brock's direction.

Brock sighed, rubbing his face with his hands. "Where's your dad?" he asked.

"He's in his room. Sleeping, I think. Uncle Hatred gave him a sedative, I believe. He said that Pop hasn't been sleeping, much. I guess he's... not taking the pressure of his new role very well, huh?" Dean replied, shrugging his shoulders nervously.

"Yeah. That's one way of putting it," Brock retorted, shaking his head. "How long has he been out?"

"I don't know... A few hours, I guess. He'd been going at it down in the lab for hours before anyone found him... Billy and Pete are still down there, trying to clean up and salvage some of their projects," Hank elaborated, shrugging.

"You boys should get to bed... I'm gonna go uh, check on your dad," Brock noted, shooting the two a meaningful look.

Brock gently rapped on Rusty's bedroom door before entering the room, closing the door behind him.

"Doc," he said softly, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. "Hey," he continued, carefully shaking Rusty's shoulder. "Doc."

"Mmmmg," Rusty mumbled, turning his head away from Brock.

"Doc... Rusty... I want to talk to you," Brock continued, shaking him by the shoulder again.

"Brock..." Rusty muttered, his words thick. "I'm so... tired..." he slurred, shutting his eyes once more.

Brock nodded, freezing as he caught sight of Rusty's bandaged hands. "What'd you do to yourself, Rust?" he asked, gingerly taking the smaller man's right hand in his own.

"I don't know," Rusty mumbled, hand limp in Brock's grasp. "Don't remember."

Brock nodded, gently placing Rusty's hand back down on the mattress. "You need to rest, Doc," he noted, reaching forward and removing Rusty's glasses.

"Mmmmg."

"Good night, Doc."

Rusty remained silent, save for the low hum of his snoring. Brock observed him for a moment, tears prickling the corners of his eyes. _You shouldn't have left him alone earlier. You knew this would happen. He always gets like this when he's angry._

* * *

"Samson."

Brock turned his head, surprised to find Sergeant Hatred observing him from the doorway. "I uh, wanted to talk to him but he's... He's down for the count, it looks like," Brock elaborated, placing his large hand over Rusty's.

"A moment of your time, son? He's not going anywhere, not in this state," Hatred replied, nodding towards the hall.

"Yeah, yeah, sure," Brock agreed, rising to his feet.

"Sooooooo, I guess you can see that Doc isn't doing too well, eh?" Hatred started, motioning for Brock to follow him down the hall into the kitchen.

"Yeah," Brock agreed, folding his arms against his chest. "What'd you give him, anyway? He could barely talk when I tried to..." he trailed off, watching as Sgt. Hatred began brewing a pot of coffee.

"I had to, son. He was out of control. Heck, I had to practically pin him down to keep him from smashing all those darn test tubes and what have you down in the lab. Blood everywhere."

"Dean said you gave him a sedative."

"Yeah. I shot him up with enough ativan to knock out a gorilla, Samson. Doc's a feisty one, I'll give him that. He would _not_ go down without a fight," Hatred noted, pouring two mugs of steaming hot coffee.

"Hmm," Brock mumbled, accepting a mug from the older man.

"He's back on the diet pills," Brock noted, taking a deep sip of coffee.

"Diet pills, eh? He never mentioned any of that back when I was-"

"It's been a long time since he's used them. Back when the boys were a lot younger he- well, he was abusing them pretty badly. He got his act together, for the most part, after that. Here and there he'd slip up, but before I uh, left to pursue other opportunities, he'd been clean for I don't know, maybe two or three years."

"He's none too fond of that woman of yours," Hatred noted, eyeing Brock suspiciously.

"Yeah," Brock agreed, sighing. "I picked up on that."

"You know, during my time as the Venture bodyguard, Doc told me some things..."

Brock froze, gripping his mug of coffee in a vice-like grip. _No. He wouldn't._ "Oh?" he asked, in a forced calm voice.

"The way he spoke about you, son... Heck, you'd think you two were married, or something. It really did a number on him, you up and quitting like you did," Hatred elaborated, shrugging his massive shoulders. "The boys took it pretty hard, too."

"Yeah, I know," Brock sighed, lowering his head.

"Why'd you up and quit like you did, anyway?"

Brock cleared his throat, uncomfortable. "It was just something I needed to do... You had it easy, the boys were already basically grown by the time you showed up... When _you_ first assigned me to guard Doc, the boys were still infants. And you know how Doc is... I was basically a full-time nanny. I raised those boys. Which is all good and well but... I'm a soldier. You know? I was tired of doing laundry and and cleaning... I wanted to go back to doing what I do best."

Hatred nodded, taking a sip of his coffee. "If you say so, son."

"Look, it doesn't matter why I left. What are we going to do about Doc?" Brock asked irritably.

Hatred shrugged. "I don't know... you say he's got some sort of addiction problem?"

Brock nodded. "Aren't you some sort of expert on handling that kind of _thing_?"

Hatred shrugged, shaking his head. "No, no, I wouldn't go that far. Besides... you're the bodyguard. You said you've handled him with this sort of thing before. He's in good hands with you."

Brock observed Hatred for a moment, right eyebrow raised. "Normally you'd jump at the opportunity to help Doc."

Hatred shifted in his seat uncomfortably, rubbing the back of his neck with his right hand. "Well, you see... He kind of said some... things... when I was trying to calm him down and get him out of the lab..." he admitted, trailing off.

"What kind of _things_?" Brock pressed, lips pressed tightly together.

"You two... have a lot of things you need to talk about, it seems. I'll leave it at that."

Brock nodded, sighing heavily. "You're right about that."


	4. Chapter 4

Brock sat at the kitchen table, staring down into his mug of coffee. After finding Doc in the state he'd been in that night, he hadn't been able to sleep. Instead, he'd spent most of the night alternating between chain-smoking on the balcony and drinking black coffee, waiting for him to awake. He'd allowed himself a few minutes every few hours to sit beside Doc in his bedroom, holding his hand. He knew it was stupid and sentimental, but he couldn't help it. He couldn't help but feel somewhat responsible for the state he was in.

"Morning Brock," Hank and Dean greeted him, entering the kitchen.

"Boys," he replied, nodding at them.

The twins quickly prepared bowls of cereal, joining him at the table. "Has Pop woken up, yet?" Hank asked, turning to Brock.

Brock shook his head. "Nah… you're dad's getting some much needed rest, Hank. Best to let him just sleep."

"It's been a long time since we've seen him so upset," Dean noted, frowning at his cereal. "What happened?"

Brock sighed, considered how to respond. "Your dad's having a rough time, Dean. But he'll get through it. He's a Venture."

The two boys eyed Brock critically, a hint of disbelief in their expression. "Did you and pop have a fight?" Hank asked.

Brock sighed, took a deep sip of his coffee. Though not the brightest kid in the world, Hank was surprisingly astute at picking up other people's feelings. In general, the kid read people better than some of the top spies in the OSI. _Kid would probably make a decent agent if he wasn't such a fuckin' disaster. And a Venture._ "Somethin' like that, Hank. We'll work it out," Brock replied finally, electing to take the honest route when dealing with the boys.

"You're not gonna… leave again… are you?" Dean asked, hesitantly.

"No. I'm not leaving, boys. I'm here to stay… your dad and I just need to talk some things over. Alright?"

The two nodded, apparently satisfied with his answer. "Good," the boys said, in unison.

"It's nice, having you back. It's like the family is finally back together again," Dean added, smiling shyly.

* * *

Rusty woke in a groggy daze, his mind pleasantly empty for a change. _What day is it?_ He frowned, struggling to come up with an answer. He yawned, curling up on his side. It was not often that Rusty was relieved from the never-ending plague of nightmares from his childhood, and he was certainly not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. He frowned as he attempted to bend his fingers, but found resistance. _Hmmm, that's not right._ Blearily, he opened his eyes, holding his hands up in front of his face. Even without his glasses on, he could see both hands were heavily bandaged, restricting movement. _Oh. Fuck._ Gingerly, he put his hands down, careful not to disturb them. Rusty didn't want to know what he'd done to sustain these injuries. Fuck, he didn't want to _think_ about what he'd done the night before, period. He shut his eyes, willing his mind to go blank again. _I'll deal with all this later._

* * *

"Hey, Rust."

Rusty frowned, irritated to be woken by the somewhat annoying voice of Billy Whalen. "What?" he mumbled, turning his head away from the smaller man.

"I need to check your hands, Rust."

Rusty paused, lips pursed together in thought. _Fuck. He's right._ "Okay," he said reluctantly, struggling to shuffle himself into an upright position in bed.

"Hatred did a pretty good job getting you patched up," Billy noted, examining one of his bandaged hands. "I'm surprised."

"You and me both," Rusty scoffed.

"Still, I need to remove the bandages, make sure you don't need further treatment," Billy continued, beginning to unwrap the bandages.

"Shouldn't you be doing this down in the lab, or something?" Rusty inquired.

Billy froze, eyeing Rusty warily. "I uh… don't think that's a good idea, Rust."

"And why is that?"

Billy frowned. "You don't remember what happened last night, do you?"

Rusty pressed his lips firmly together, his stomach roiling in realization of what must have occurred the night before. "I uh… lost it again, I take?" he said finally, avoiding making eye contact.

"That'd be putting it lightly," Billy retorted, resuming his work.

"You're gonna need stitches for some of these cuts, Rust. And you've still got glass in your hand," Billy noted, frowning.

"Great," Rusty retorted, rolling his eyes. "Fantastic." As Billy poked and prodded at his hand, the pain level increased tenfold, from a steady but tolerable ache to excruciating pain. "You want to get me something to deal with this? My hand is killing me, thanks to _you_ ," Rusty snapped, lips curled in anger.

Billy nodded, quickly retreating from the room.

* * *

"So how's he doing?" Brock asked lowly, observing the doctor from his seat on the couch in the living room.

"Being an asshole, as usual," Billy noted. "You want to do me a favor and grab my bag from the lab? He needs stitches."

"Sure," Brock retorted coolly, rising to his feet.

"Oh, and grab the bottle of Percocet I've got in the medicine cabinet down there," Billy added, following after Brock.

Brock stopped in his tracks, turning to face the much smaller man. "You really think givin' doc _more_ pills is a good idea, Whalen?" he asked, eyes glimmering threateningly.

"He's in pain. You want to hear him screaming when I'm giving him stitches and removing the glass he's still got in his hands?" Billy asked, exasperated. "You know Rust… he's never one to suffer through pain when there's pharmaceuticals available."

Brock shot him a stony look, arms folded against his chest.

"You two are impossible," Billy noted, sighing heavily.

"What do you mean by _that_?" Brock asked gruffly.

"What do you _think_ I mean?" Billy retorted. "Look, I'll give him the bare minimum, okay? He's already testy about whatever set him off yesterday. We don't want a repeat performance, do we?" he asked.

Brock sighed. "No," he conceded, shaking his head. "I'll uh, go get your bag and stuff."

* * *

"Doc."

Dr. Venture remained silent, scowling at the hulking man before him.

"Doc, I know you're awake. You can't pretend I'm not here."

Rusty rolled his eyes. _Oh I can't, can't I?_ He remained silent, purposely avoiding his bodyguard's gaze.

"Rust. I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry for what I said, yesterday."

Rusty stared at the blond, a single eyebrow raised, but said nothing.

"I'm sorry I got on you about the pills, but Christ, Rust… you promised you were done with that shit. I hate seeing you like this," Brock continued, gesturing at him.

"Go away," Rusty said, his voice cracking. "Just… go."

"Doc-"

"Go," Rusty snapped, splaying a bandaged hand up towards the door.

Brock opened his mouth to protest but decided against it, obeying the doctor's wishes by leaving the room. He retreated to the kitchen, where he found Sgt. Hatred drinking coffee and examining the label on the back of a box of cereal. Suddenly, he felt the overwhelming urge to be _anywhere_ but where he was.

"Everything alright, son?"

Brock shrugged in response, grabbing his keys from the counter. "Doc's awake. Maybe you should go check on him, see if he wants anything. Coffee or something."

"Shouldn't you be doing that, son?"

"Nah. He doesn't want to talk to me."

Sgt. Hatred opened his mouth to object, but Brock beat him to it, cutting him off. "I'm goin' out for a while, okay? Look after doc and the boys."

"Where are you goin'?"

Brock shrugged, pulling on his leather jacket. "Out."

* * *

Brock lit a cigarette, head propped up with one arm behind it, frowning. _What am I even doing here?_ Beside him, Warriana lay, still nude, watching him curiously. He flicked his eyes downward, avoiding her gaze. _Guess Rust has a point… I'm barely there. Of all times, I should be there… yet here I am._ He sighed, taking a drag off his cigarette.

"Is something bothering you, Heracles?" Warriana asked, interrupting Brock's thoughts.

"Huh? No… I'm uh, fine," he muttered, shrugging.

"Are you sure? You didn't seem very _present_ , earlier," she retorted, shooting him a look that indicated that she was not buying his story at all.

Brock took a drag off his cigarette, inhaling deeply, as he considered her words. Admittedly, he _had_ been distracted while they'd had sex, his thoughts lingering on Rusty. In fact, he'd barely been aware of the goddess before him, allowing her to take control altogether, far too engrossed in his thoughts to even attempt to put up a fight to lead.

"Just uh, work stuff, you know?" he said finally, struggling to come up with a reasonable excuse. "Had a long night."

"Hard to believe the puny Doctor Venture could get himself into enough trouble to wear you out, Heracles," Warriana observed, rising from the mattress and retrieving her dressing robe.

"You'd be surprised… Doc's… he can be a real live wire when he wants to be," Brock noted, smiling wistfully.

"So how long have you been in love with him?"

"What?" Brock choked, taken aback by her query.

"Well?" she pressed.

"I'm not… he's… he's an _assignment._ I worked for him for over twenty years, it's not... it's not like _that_ ," he stammered, stumbling over his words.

"Rightttt," Warriana retorted, eyebrows risen in suspicion. "If you say so, Heracles."

Brock stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray on the nightstand beside him. "Would you quit callin' me that?" he huffed, anger sparking in his eyes. "It's startin' to get on my nerves."

Warriana rolled her eyes, shaking her head. "Oh, have I offended you?" she asked mockingly. "Heaven forbid the great Heracles be bothered while he's deep in thought, worrying over his quarrel with his lover-"

"What are you implying?" Brock interrupted, glaring.

"I don't need my truth lasso to know what's in front of me, _Heracles_ … the puny doctor is your lover. And he has been, for some time, now. Am I wrong, _Heracles_?" Warriana continued, matching his glare.

Brock sighed, decided against arguing with her. _No point_ _arguing_ _, she'll just break out the lasso._ "I guess I should uh, go," he muttered, rising to gather his discarded clothing from the floor.

"I'm surprised. I didn't peg you for the type to walk away from a fight," Warriana countered, arms folded against her chest.

Brock sighed. "Yeah, well…" he trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck. " "I think we should uh, stop seein' each other, I guess."

Warriana nodded, patted his shoulder sympathetically. "You were an admirable partner, fair Heracles. It's a rarity to come across a mere _mortal_ who can satiate my desires," she told him.

"Yeah… it was uh, it was fun," Brock replied, unsure of what else to say.

Warriana escorted him to the door, waiting expectantly as he paused in the doorway. "Listen, it's nothin' personal, you know. I liked doin' you, it's just-"

"A word of advice?" Warriana interrupted her tone uncharacteristically warm.

"Yeah?"

"Sort things out with him."

"I'm surprised you're takin' this so well, I didn't think ya would-"

Warriana waved her hand dismissively, interrupting the man. "While I've enjoyed our time together, who am I to stand in the way of love? Go sort things out with your man, Samson."

Brock shook his head, smirking. "So you _did_ know my name, after all."

"Darling, I know _everything._ "

* * *

"So what are we gonna do about this, Rust?" Brock asked, observing the smaller man from the door-frame of his bedroom. He'd made his way directly to see Rusty as soon as he'd gotten home, finding him propped up in bed, scrolling through his v-phone.

"Do about what?" Rusty scoffed, arms folded against his chest.

Brock sighed, taking a seat on the edge of Rusty's bed. "I uh, broke things off with Warriana."

"Good for you," Rusty sneered, rolling his eyes. "Got bored of her that quickly?"

Brock sighed, choosing to ignore the doctor's comment. "I'm sorry I hurt you."

"Oh _please,_ spare me, Brock. You didn't-didn't _hurt_ me," Rusty scoffed, rolling his eyes.

Brock shot him a meaningful look. "Doc," he started, rubbing the back of his neck anxiously. "I'm not great with this sort of thing. You know that.." he trailed off, considering his words.

"I know you've got a lot on your plate now, but I can't watch you to blow this opportunity because of those damn pills. You're a fuckin' super-scientist. You're… you're _Rusty Venture._ You don't need fuckin' pills to do this. You never did, Rust."

"I'm not my dad, Brock. I'm not J.J…. I can't- I don't know how to… everyone's just _waiting_ for me to fuck this all up like I always do and I don't…" Rusty trailed off wringing his hands in his lap.

Brock placed a hand on the smaller man's shoulder. "You're more capable than you give yourself credit for, Rust. You don't have to do this alone. You think J.J. got where he was, doing it all alone?"

Rusty shrugged."I don't know… he certainly got all those degrees of his in short order. Wouldn't be surprised if he _did_ do it all alone. He was the better man, Brock."

"No, Doc. He had a team. Hundreds, if not thousands, of employees, handling the day to day operations of the business. You're pushing yourself harder than you need to," Brock continued, squeezing his shoulder.

"So what do I do?"

"Hire a new team. Take some of the pressure off yourself."

"I don't know how to… this is all too much," Rusty sighed, rubbing his temples.

"You're not alone in this, Rust. You've got Billy and Pete… you've got me," he added, the last part barely above a whisper.

Rusty sighed, stared down at his lap. "Maybe," he said finally, after several minutes of silence.

"How are you feelin'?" Brock asked.

"Better than I was… Billy took care of getting a hold of some pills for me. Between that and the painkillers… I'm certainly feeling better than this morning, that's for sure," Rusty retorted, shrugging.

Brock frowned. "Doc… you don't need to takin' that shit. You know what it did to ya the last time you got all fucked up on amphetamines…"

"I thought we already established this, Brock. It's not your _business,_ " Rusty retorted, shooting Brock a cold look.

"Doc-"

"Goodnight, Brock," Rusty snapped, cutting him off.

"Rusty, come on. We've still gotta talk about what happened," Brock countered, folding his arms across his chest.

" _Good night,_ Brock," Rusty retorted, shooting Brock a filthy look, before rolling over on his side, turning his back to the larger man.

Brock sighed, defeated. "Good night, Doc," he said lowly, lingering for a few moments before slowly retreating from the room.

* * *

Brock poured himself a double shot of whiskey, staring miserably down into the glass. _Well, today went well. Broke things off with Warriana, and for what? Doc still will barely speak to me._ He brought the glass to his lips, draining the contents with a single gulp.

"Rough day?"

Brock glanced up, finding Sgt. Hatred lingering in the doorway. "Yeah… guess you could say that," he agreed, pouring himself another drink.

"Doc still being testy with you?" Hatred asked, watching as Brock drained another shot of whiskey.

"He's shutting me out. Doesn't want to talk about what happened," Brock retorted, sighing. He poured himself another drink. "You want a shot?" he offered.

Sgt. Hatred frowned, considering. "Probably shouldn't but… eh, what the heck?"

Brock shrugged, pouring the man a glass, as well. He knew the guy was allegedly in recovery, but what the hell? He could use some company while he drank himself into a stupor.

The two sat in silence for some time, Hatred matching him shot for shot. After he'd lost count of how many they'd drank, Brock sighed, running his left hand through his unruly locks. "So… what exactly did Doc tell you last night?" he asked.

"Well let's just say he confirmed long-held suspicions loads of us always had about what exactly went on up in that compound, son," Hatred retorted, slurring slightly.

Brock nodded, tossing back a shot. "So he told you we-"

"Yep. Didn't go into the gory details but… it was pretty clear he's been in love with you for a _long time_ , Samson. Tore him up something awful when you up and left like you did."

Brock nodded but remained silent, reaching for the bottle. He took a swig, not bothering with a glass any longer. _Like it didn't hurt me, leaving the boys. Leaving him._ He took another swig. There was only one thing left to do in a situation like this; get drunk. Get very drunk.


End file.
